


Up To High Heaven

by christinefromsherwood



Series: 007 Fest 2019 [17]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Arguing, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Making Up, Overcoming your Fear, Pampuria might just be evil, oh they are so very married guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 12:36:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinefromsherwood/pseuds/christinefromsherwood
Summary: “I’m not fucking scared of heights!” Bond growled, squeezing his balled-up blanket in clenched fingers.





	Up To High Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Reverse Trope Day: Here, it's not Q who is afraid to go up in the sky.
> 
> also for the Collab Prompt Table:  
> a dear anon prompted me with: 00q + fear of flying + an audience (could be any side character or multiple ones) = skydiving with go-pro cameras.  
> I... well, all of these things are there? :D D I swear I began with the intention to focus on the skydiving part, but ... well, the story happened :D 
> 
> I hope you still like it, whoever you are! I had so much fun writing for this prompt!! Thank you!

Bond couldn’t have been happier when Q told him he’d decided to take a course and get rid of his fear of flying once and for all. The course had excellent referrals from Moneypenny and Tanner; it even passed with flying colours on Yelp.

There were thirteen weekly sessions in all. Before each one, Q was a nervous wreck.

Bond hated seeing him like that. Some people when they were anxious became chatty and exuberant, but Q got quiet and withdrew into himself. He’d sit on the sofa, with white-knuckled fingers buried in Pam’s fur, and stare at the clock.

First, when Bond wasn’t on a mission, he’d bring him cups of his favourite tea.

Then he figured out that did nothing to help Q with his anxiety, so he began to book them into restaurants or plan outings so that Q would have no time to worry, since Bond always organize their dates with only just enough time to get Q to his sessions on time.

(Alright, maybe Bond managed to distract Q on one of their dates so well that he’d come in late, with his tie all crooked and looking ravishingly ravished. Maybe he was even particularly proud of that as an achievement.)

Anyway, as much as Bond hated seeing Q dreading his sessions, he loved being the one who got to be there to welcome Q home after they finished.

The stress of the sessions and the subsequent feeling of victory over the angst demon made his eyes sparkle with the same fire as a successful hack.

Q was working to get over his fear; he was chatting with Della over in Florida, planning a visit.

Q was happy.

And that was everything.

And then came week 13 and this time Q actually burst through the door so excitedly, it crashed against the wall and made both Bond and Pam jump up and ready their weapons (a Walther—he really had no idea how it managed to find its way from Q-branch to their flat—for Bond; claws and fierce hissing for the big fluffy cat). 

Q soothed them both with kisses and petting, all the while babbling about how they actually got on a small plane and flew over London, and that the river looked like a snake and the London Eye was really fucking big, and that the M25 really was an evil sigil. 

Bond loved it when Q laughed; he simply had to kiss him every time. It was a physical need.

So that’s exactly what he did when Q got out in-between giggles about how Gita, another attendee, began a giant quote-battle when she suddenly went: “Hail the Great Beast, destroyer of worlds,” just as they were above the London Orbital.

“And I know that the course is over, but the instructor said that next week for those who would be interested there’s the opportunity to go sky-diving in Wales! And I knew that you had no missions scheduled so I signed us up!” Q continued in the same excited tone after they broke apart.

Bond blinked at him, then, desperately, he looked around for inspiration. Pam had long ago stopped being interested in what her silly humans were doing, so there was no help coming from that quarter.

“Sky-diving, huh?” was what he settled on when he felt Q’s expectant silence tip over into the category of puzzled/hurt.

“Sounds great!” There. A bit of warmth, and just the right amount of enthusiasm. Perfect.

Q pulled away from him; the left corner of his mouth turning down. No sign of his previous excitement.

Fuck. Not perfect then.

“Oh, _Sunday_! You said _Sunday_ ,” Bond babbled in what he hoped didn’t sound like panic. “That’s alright then. I thought I heard Saturday. I have plans for us on Saturday!”

He smiled as warmly as he knew how, and was immediately certain he had made a mistake.

“Actually, I didn’t say,” Q informed him; hoarfrost in his voice. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t use your honeypot smiles on me. If you don’t want to go, you can just bloody say so.”

And he was up off the sofa in a flash and stalking off into the kitchen.

Fuck.

Bond dragged his palm across his face. Now Q was in a snit, and Bond couldn’t really blame him.

It was the fake smile that did it. Q really hated it when he reverted to his mission MO when they were at home.

“Meow,” Pam announced smugly from the other end of the sofa. And Bond just knew that she had come back to gloat.

Sometimes he could swear that the cat was as evil as her original owner (especially when she laid herself on his pillow and farted in his face at night, because Q just would feed her those salmon bacon treats).

In the kitchen, Q was putting the kettle on; the sounds aggressively careful.

Bond exchanged one last icy look with the ungrateful cat (honestly, one would think the animal might show a little appreciation to the person who saved her from an exploding crater!), and then he got to his feet and made his way towards the kitchen.

He leant against the door-frame, and watched as Q’s shoulders tensed at his approach.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said, because it was a) true and b) always a good way to begin an apology. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Q’s shoulders slumped forward, which Bond took as an invitation to come closer and slide an arm around his waist.

Q relaxed into his embrace.

“I _am_ happy that you’ve taken to flying, love, I really am,” Bond continued, which earned him a kiss on the side of his jaw.

“So what’s wrong?” Q asked. “Have you really already made plans? I thought about calling you and asking, but… well, I wanted to surprise you.”

Bond stroked his fingers over the sliver of skin which showed between Q’s cardigan and his jeans.

Q shivered. But the kettle began to make the sort of a rumbling sound which meant the water was going to reach the boiling point any second now, and after pressing more firmly against Bond’s side for a moment, Q pulled away and went to get their mugs.

Watching Q tie the tea bags around the cup holders, Bond began to explain, haltingly:

“Well, sky-diving… just…” Q reached for the kettle and then turned to look at him when he fell silent again.

“It just…” Bond had absolutely no idea how to say what he meant without sounding like he was either making excuses, or an absolute idiot.

In a cloud of steam, which made the fine hair around his temples wriggle, Q doused their tea in boiling water.

“Yeah?” he prompted softly.

“Well, you’ve read that brief of the 06 mission in Madagascar, yeah?”

“The one where before you blew up the embassy, you parkoured your way through Nambutu and then fought the target on a crane at the height of 300 feet?”

“Yeah,” Bond grinned awkwardly and scratched the back of his head. “And then with the plane in Bolivia- Well, that’s just the job, right? I don’t mind when it’s a job. And I don’t mind flying, you’ve got a firm floor under your feet when you’re in a plane. But sky-diving just… wouldn’t be fun for me.”

Q handed him his tea and leaned back against the kitchen island. Bond went to blow on it, and tried to focus on the ripples on the surface, rather than the heat creeping up his neck.

He just knew that Q was giving him that careful look he usually reserved for when he was trying to be diplomatic about situations where he felt Bond’s age might affect Bond’s performance of things that Bond could absolutely still do no problem.

That look…well, that look really fucked Bond off.

“Could you not-?!” he began to say and he would have gestured with his hands, except one was in his pocket, and he needed the other to hold his tea steady.

And of course the bloody cat chose that exact moment to enter the kitchen, and rub herself against Q’s leg while meowing meaningfully at the cookie jar with her salmon treats!

“Love, I’m not going to judge you for not liking heights,” Q said softly as he reached for the jar.

“Q, why are you giving her that bacon again?! She’ll stink up the whole bedroom!” Bond exploded. Both pairs of green eyes turned to look at him in an offended, reproachful way.

“That happened just the once and you know it,” Q answered firmly.

“Yeah, for you it happened only once! You, somehow—and I have no idea how—managed to sleep through the other biological attacks of our cat! I keep telling you not to give it to her!”

“And I keep telling you it was just the once and that it _wasn’t_ the bacon! That was when she jumped on the table and ate some of the Brie.”

It was infuriating how Q could say the most unreasonable things in the most clinical, reasonable way.

“She’s not bloody sleeping with us if you feed her that!” But Q was already bending over and handing Pampuria two slivers of the bacon.

At Bond's words, Q straightened in an explosion of movement. The rest of the bacon in his hand fell to the floor and the cat fell on them, immediately.

Well that was just perfect, wasn’t it…

“She’ll scratch-! You know, she’ll scratch the bloody paint off the door if we leave her in the living room, James!”

“Yeah?! Well, maybe you shouldn’t have fed her the bloody fart treats, then! ‘Cause I’m not sleeping with her!”

“Don’t call them the fart treats! The vet recommended them!”

“Well, maybe the vet should try sleeping in bed with the Her Fartliness then!”

“Well, I bet he’d be much nicer company than you!” answered Q.

Which was ridiculous because Dr. Achterkamp was over eighty and suffered from a dire case of halitosis, and Bond had no idea how they got from discussing sky-diving to arguing about the bloody cat, but at the moment he found he didn’t care.

“So you just refuse to believe me?! Well, that’s just typical isn’t it-?!”

“Typic-?!”

“Yeah! You always know best! I told you the bloody cat was deliberately puking in my Italian leather shoes, and you didn’t believe me. ‘But why would she do that, Jam-?’”

“Do not fucking do the voice! I hate it when you-“

“Well, remember what happened later? You told her off for jumping on the table in the kitchen, and she threw up all over your laptop bag. Ring a bell, does it?”

“You-! I- I can’t speak to you when you’re like this! You’re insufferable!”

“Yeah? Well, you needn’t worry about _suffering_ me tonight!”

Bond banged the cup on the counter and strode out of the kitchen.

“What-?! Where are you going?!” Q followed after.

Bond grabbed his pillow and began to gather the blankets.

He had dealt with long white hair all over his best suits. That’s what lint rollers were for. He had dealt with having to tip the cleaners extra twenty quid to clean the cat puke out of his shoes every other week. But he’d be damned before he spent one more night with the evil littleš shit farting in his face.

“ _I_ am sleeping on the couch,” he announced and refused to feel silly at the dramatic way he said it.

“Fine!” Q threw up his hands and began to walk away.

Bond caught bits and pieces of what he was muttering under his breath: “…bloody posturing … heights … macho bloody- bloody hedgehog! … can’t admit… scared-”

“I’m not fucking scared of heights!” Bond growled, squeezing his balled-up blanket in clenched fingers.

Two hours later, Bond was seriously questioning his memory regarding the lethalness of Pampuria’s wind.

It couldn’t possibly be as bad as that one bloody spring in the sofa, which kept digging into his back, or thigh, or –for one terrible millisecond—cock, whenever he found a position he could imagine himself falling asleep in.

Once Q dropped off, he slept like a log. He probably wouldn’t even notice that Bond had snea-

The door to the bedroom cracked open.

The bloody cat probably wanted to be let out to her litter box.

Bond stilled his movements on the sofa, closed his eyes and listened, as a pair of… _human_ feet padded into the living room.

“James?” Q croaked out, all groggy and voice… laden with pain?! Bond shot up on the sofa.

“What’s wrong?!” he barked out, tearing off his blanket.

Q was silent. Bond scrambled to his feet, silently cursing his bad knee.

In the dim light that came into the room from the street lamp outside their Bermondsey flat, Q blinked at him in confusion.

“What are y- I’m fine!”

Bond allowed his shoulders to sag.

“What’s wrong?” he asked again, quietly.

“Can we- Can I sleep here with you?” Q answered, eyes flickering towards the bedroom door. “I can’t fall asleep if you’re not there.”

Bond bit his lip to hide a smile, and bent to drag the coffee table to the side.

“Come help me with this,” he said. “We might as well pull out the bed.”

Moments later they lay, stiff as rods, on the plank-like mattress of the pull-out bed, staring at the ceiling.

“You, my love, are a terrible liar,” Bond began conversationally.

Q was quiet.

“How bad was she?” he continued, unable to hide the laughter in his voice. He heard Q turn over on his side towards him.

“James, you were so right!” Q blurted out, and after a moment continued earnestly: “I’m bringing the whole jar of those _things_ into Q-branch tomorrow and throwing them in the incinerator!”

Bond muffled a bark of laughter with his hand.

“No, I really am!” Q went on. “It was horrible. So much worse than when Joe decided to prove that you could create a bomb out of gummy bears and peroxide and rotten eggs!”

Bond was laughing so hard the whole bed was shaking.

“No really, you were so right and I am so sorry for not believing you!” Bond ignored the sting in his knee and rolled to his side to press his lips to Q’s ridiculously scrunched up nose.

He didn’t say _I told you so_ , he said: “I just don’t understand how you didn’t smell it before!”

He felt Q’s shrug more than he saw it.

“I just slept through it, I suppose. This time I couldn’t sleep, ‘cause I was upset and you weren’t there—“ Bond interrupted him with another kiss. “And so I was lying there and thinking how ridiculous you were being and how you probably weren’t getting any sleep because there’s that one spring-“

“Right?!” Bond couldn’t help breaking in. “Where does it go during the day? It’s never there when we sit down to watch telly!”

“It is a mystery,” Q agreed sagely and lay his head against Bond’s chest. “So I’m lying there, right? And thinking: ‘That James, he just likes to be dramatic-“

“Hey!”

“Well, it’s true, love! You do love drama! ‘…he just likes to be dramatic, always exaggerating…’ and then it began! The cannonade! I have no idea how you lasted a whole night through _that_ , James! She stank up the air, she stank up the blankets-“

“I was wondering why you didn’t bring yours!”

“I couldn’t bear to touch it!”

Bond wrapped his arms around Q tighter, and rested his cheek against his hair.

“I will never doubt you again!” Q promised solemnly, and they went to sleep.

The next morning over breakfast, feeling much more rested and reasonable, they discussed whether Bond might not, after all, like to go sky diving with Q sometime, since Q really had his heart set on the activity.

He’d already planned to borrow Moneypenny’s Go Pro camera, and had created the perfect sky-diver’s playlist ( _A Whole New World_ was apparently featured not once, but twice – one was the original, the other the new remake version).

Bond, however, remained strongly of the opinion that sky-diving, even when done off planes that weren’t plummeting to the ground, was an activity best kept solely for missions.

So it was decided that he’d wait for Q and Eve, who shared Q’s enthusiasm for the doing the jump, on the landing strip, armed with a camera, and a picnic basket (and actual firearms, of course).

(Q absolutely did use the Q-branch incinerator to burn those salmon bacon treats. That is not to say that Pampuria never farted in their bed again, of course. Sometimes the humans needed to be taught their place.)


End file.
